


Three's A Party

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-16
Updated: 2010-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between Gabriel being split into two by a witch's curse and his brother's steadfast refusal to help solve the problem, Sam's life has, as of late, gone from "weird" to "soap opera."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three's A Party

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: Rimming, DP

Number one, in Sam’s defense, he hadn’t known that there were some witches who were powerful enough that they could affect angels.

And number two, it wasn’t like it had been his idea to bring Gabriel along. Gabriel had just _shown up_ , and yeah, they fuck sometimes, but it’s not like he has any control over what the archangel _does_. His sex life does not equal a celestial leash.

“Oh shit,” he says. “Oh _shit_.” Gabriel scowls at him.

Well. _One_ Gabriel scowls at him. The other one just looks sort of serenely confused. “Serene” is not the kind of expression that Sam is used to seeing on Gabriel’s face, so it’s sort of understandable that it takes him a minute or two to get over that fact, and also _holy shit_ , there are _two Gabriels_.

“As soon as I get my powers back,” Gabriel says (scowling Gabriel – Gabriel number one?), “I’m going to turn you into a fuckin’ toad.”

Sam makes a sound that, he suspects, is probably really close to the sound that water buffaloes might make when they’re wounded by particularly sarcastic lions. “ _What_.”

“That’s not very kind of you,” the second Gabriel notes quietly. Sam makes the noise again. Gabriel number one snarls at him.

Sam wonders if Dean will miss him, if he just quietly hyperventilates himself to death right here and now.

~

The only reason that Dean doesn’t immediately drink himself into a coma upon seeing not one, but _two_ Gabriels being bundled into their motel room, is because there isn’t actually enough alcohol on the premises to accomplish such a feat. Which is sort of a first, for them. Still, the lack of alcohol doesn’t keep Dean from shouting at Sam for going after the witch by himself, and then shouting at Gabriel (one or both of them, it doesn’t really seem to matter to Dean) for letting him go, and oh, also, for being a _complete fucking dick_ (Dean’s words, not Sam’s).

Sam sits on the edge of his bed, listening to Dean’s yelling degenerate into a string of insults, trying to keep himself from panicking over whatever the fuck is actually happening. The Gabriels both look vaguely bored, although one moreso than the other. That’s the one, Sam thinks, that he’s beginning to think of as the “original” Gabriel (like either of them are really originals, what with the whole vessel thing). The other Gabriel is…calmer. Quieter. He sort of reminds Sam of when he’d first met Castiel, back before Dean introduced the angel to bacon cheese fries and porn and Jack Daniels. Looking at him almost makes Sam feel…unworthy.

Which, you know, isn’t all that hard to do these days, considering all the awful shit he’s done, but still. It’s not the sort of feeling that Gabriel _used_ to inspire.

“Are we done yet?” Gabriel drawls, obviously bored, obviously not listening to Dean (whose insults have gotten progressively more creative since he started). The other Gabriel drifts around the edges of the room like a confused ghost, picking things up, looking at them, putting them down again. “Because I need to take a shit, and I’m thinking that’s going to be ten times more interesting than watching you have a rage-induced aneurism.”

Sam wrinkles his nose; Dean sputters, and then swivels on the ball of his heel and points menacingly at his brother. Sam raises his hands in instinctive self defense.

“ _You_. Fix this. _Now._ ”

“I don’t…”

“ _Now_.”

Sam scrubs his hands over his cheeks, then runs his fingers up and back through his hair. “I’ll look into it. I’ll call Bobby, okay? And…and Castiel.”

“Too fucking right.” Dean takes a lurching step towards the front door, and then turns around, announcing to the room at large, “I’m getting another room. _You_ get to stay in here with the Doublemint Twins.” Dean pronounces the word “you” as though it has somehow personally offended him. “We aren’t leaving until this is fixed.”

“But…”

Dean’s glare could kill a rhino at twenty paces. Sam shuts his mouth before his brother decides to do grievous physical harm to him. Original Gabriel idly adjusts his jeans.

“I don’t know how you can stand being human,” he says loudly. “Everything is so…inconveniently designed. And uncomfortable. Have my testicles always hung down like this?”

“You are wildly inappropriate,” Sam says. Dean makes a desperate sound of disgust and then slams his way out of the room. Sam looks after him, feeling an odd mixture of embarrassment and longing. Dean’s probably going to go and get drunk.

Sam wishes _he_ could go and get drunk.

A blazing hot weight settles next to him on the bed, and Sam blinks, surprised, as an arm curls around his shoulders.

“We will fix this,” Gabriel murmurs against Sam’s ear. “Do not worry.”

~

It’s a stupid curse. It might be the stupidest curse Sam’s ever come across, and he was once on the receiving end of a curse that made it so he couldn’t eat meat, for an entire month, without puking his guts out. Hell, he was once _turned into a talking car_ \- by the very asshole he’s trying to help, no less (and never mind that whole “sometimes we fuck” thing, because that has no bearing on how much of an asshole Gabriel is _at all_ ). But this sort of takes the cake.

After calling Bobby, who calls some guy in Texas, who then calls a woman in Oregon, Sam finally learns what the point of the curse is.

It’s meant to separate a person into two parts.

“I could have told you _that_ ,” he tells Bobby, who calls him an idiot and then informs Sam that it’s a little more complicated than that. If Gabriel had just been split into two, both halves would be acting the same, but they’re not. One’s developed a craving for medium-rare meat and a distressing tendency to make announcements about his bodily functions, and the other hardly talks at all (suspicious thing number one), and when he _does_ talk his voice is soft, and kind, and…and _angelic_ (suspicious thing number two).

So, it’s not just parts. It’s…aspects. Bobby says that he thinks that, had the curse affected a human, it would have split them into a raging, primitive caveperson on the one hand, and a meek, inoffensive sweetheart on the other.

“Wasn’t that the plot of a Buffy episode?” Sam muses aloud, and Bobby grunts something, probably offensive, at him, says he’ll look into a cure, and then hangs up. Sam pockets his cell phone and stares at the wall, taking deep breaths. Dean is in the room down the hall, probably getting the best sleep of his life, and here’s Sam, sitting in the dark, trying to keep himself from panicking because holy shit, he’s got _two Gabriels_ in the same room as him, and usually having only _one_ Gabriel is enough to incite a recipe for disaster.

“I never knew this was what it felt like,” Gabriel murmurs – he’s lying on what was Dean’s bed, curled on his side and watching Sam with strangely dark eyes. The other Gabriel, the angel, is nestled against his back, one arm thrown over his other half’s waist. They almost look like brothers, waiting for their parents to come and tell them a bedtime story.

Sam doesn’t mention that. He sort of values his current state of “not being punched repeatedly in the balls.”

“What what felt like?” Sam asks, against his better judgment, and Gabriel rolls his shoulders in something like a shrug.

“Being human.”

“We’ll, you’ve taken to eating, pissing and shitting pretty naturally, so I’m thinking it’s not as big a deal as I thought it was.”

“You would be wrong,” the other Gabriel whispers. “I cannot imagine what it would be like, to feel so much.”

Sam frowns. “Feel so much…?”

“Things are muted, when you’re an angel,” Gabriel sighs. “Like feeling everything through a piece of silk. There are only a few things that I experience the way humans do.”

“Sweets,” the other Gabriel says, and, “Sex,” the first one counters.

“Well, sometimes.”

“ _Shh._ ”

Sam clears his throat. “No, no shushing. What do you mean _sometimes_?” Both Gabriels look at him; the human half has a deer-in-headlights look that Sam thinks he’d find funny, in any other situation. The angel, on the other hand, looks unruffled. As always.

“I have had sexual relations with many partners…”

“Uh, _I_ have had a ton of sex, thanks very much.”

“…and the vast majority of them have prompted only the most basic of physical responses.”

Sam closes his eyes. “So when we…?”

“ _Shh_ ,” Gabriel says again, but his other half continues on, blissfully unaware of the spiteful expression Gabriel is wearing.

“I am pleased to say that you are a rare exception.”

“Oh,” Sam says, faintly.

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Don’t read too much into it. It’s good sex, but that’s _all_ it is.”

“Right.” Sam glances at the door, wondering if, maybe, he’ll get lucky and Dean will knock, maybe wanting to see how Sam’s progress on the curse is going, maybe…

No. No such luck. Sam is trapped in a motel room with the two halves of his angelic not-a-boyfriend, who’s just admitted that sex with Sam makes him _feel_ in a way that sex with other people rarely does.

And Sam is feeling stupidly pleased about that.

“None of that mushy shit,” Gabriel says quickly, apparently seeing Sam’s less than solemn expression. Sam quickly kicks off his boots and swings his feet up onto the bed.

“Got to sleep,” he says.

“I do not require sleep.”

“Speak for yourself, asshole.”

Sam turns onto his side and pretends that he can’t hear the archangel fighting with himself in the other bed.

~

So, Bobby calls, and in the grand tradition of the world screwing over the Winchester family, it’s not what Sam wants to hear.

It’s a cure. Sort of. _Maybe_. Even Bobby, with his seemingly endless knowledge of obscure magical shit, seems sort of hesitant to commit to anything he’s actually telling Sam.

“Only through the greatest show of compromise can the severed soul be once again united,” Bobby says. Quotes, really, from an ancient and dusty book that he’d had overnighted to him from somewhere in Maine. Apparently, this sort of thing happens a lot in Maine. Sam takes a moment to reconsider every Stephen King novel he’s ever read. Then he takes a moment to try and puzzle out what, exactly, a “great show of compromise” is.

He listens to Gabriel and…well, _Gabriel_ , the angel Gabriel, arguing with each other in the bathroom. Something about the hot water. At this point, Sam’s pretty sure that _any_ compromise between the two could be considered “great.” No – could be considered _monumental_. The sort of compromise sealed with a treaty and commemorated with a solid bronze statue.

“That’s…unhelpful,” is what he eventually goes with, and Bobby snorts.

“It’s all you’re getting. This is some major league magic we’re working with.”

“I sort of got that, since it worked on an archangel.” Sam glances at the closed bathroom door as the sound of something clattering against tile reaches his ears. He hopes they aren’t killing each other in there. “Are you sure there’s nothing…?”

“Believe me, I’ve looked.” Sam does. Believe him, that is. Bobby’s probably gotten more sleep than Sam has, over the past week and a half, but not by much.

Although, to be fair, at least a small part of Sam’s sleeplessness has been caused by sexual frustration. He doesn’t even want to admit it to himself, considering who he’s sharing the room with, but his thing with Gabriel was _good_. His thing with Gabriel ensured that Sam got sex as many times a week as he wanted it, and Gabriel was always up for it, and always creative, and always _attentive_ , something that Sam…doesn’t get a lot of. And now he’s got _two_ Gabriels, both of which seem more interested in fighting with each other than noticing that Sam’s been spending an awful lot of alone time in the shower every night.

Sam lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, and says, “Thanks, Bobby.”

“I’d help more if I could, son, but with you being so far away…”

Dean outright refuses to spend any lengthy amount of time in the car with Gabriel, either or both, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes, Sam really, _really_ hates his brother. He tells Bobby goodbye, and then hangs up, pocketing his phone just in time to be able to pay full attention to the two figures – one man, and one angel – who emerge from the bathroom.

They’re both wearing nothing but towels. Sam makes an embarrassing noise, low in his throat. Gabriel doesn’t have the whole lambent blue-eyed heavenly lamb look that Castiel has, doesn’t really have that otherworldly etherealness, and he sure as hell doesn’t have anything that Sam normally finds attractive in a person (read: compassion, a sense of humor that doesn’t involve filling someone’s bed with live scorpions, breasts), but there’s still something primal about him that hits Sam somewhere low in his gut. Something earthy and ancient, and sometimes he can see it, the hints of an angelic nature behind the sweet tooth and the innuendo.

Sometimes Sam can almost imagine wings.

“You,” he says, and feels his breath punch out of him when both Gabriels turn to regard him, their hair wet, hands placed on their hips to keep their towels up. Mirror images of each other.

Sam pictures that part in the Watchmen movie, where Dr. Manhattan duplicates himself for Laurie, and is suddenly, embarrassingly hard.

“Did Singer call?” one of the Gabriels asks, and Sam can only nod dumbly. “Well? Good news or bad?”

“Uh.” Sam licks his lips as Gabriel – he thinks it’s the angel – brushes past him, on his way to pick up his clothes. “Sort of…both?”

“That’s encouraging,” Gabriel drawls. “Hey, you, fuck off! Those are _my_ pants!”

“I hardly see how it matters.”

“Because they’re not yours, that’s why.”

“Technically, as I _am_ you, they are.”

“Sharing’s not going to kill you,” Sam offers, and receives a glare for his trouble.

“I’m not sharing with _him_ ,” Gabriel mutters. “He’s…everything I hate about Heaven. Prissy. Uptight. Fucking _sanctimonious_.”

“And you are everything I despise about humanity,” is the response. “Crude, driven by your animal instincts, and uncontrolled. It is only when we are a whole that we will approve of ourselves again.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I have to…” Sam doesn’t even know what he “has to.” Has to jerk off, maybe, before he explodes, but he’s not going to tell the Gabriels that, not when they’re having this complex (well, as complex as the human Gabriel can get) discussion about their own natures. Sam gestures vaguely at the door to the bathroom, and feels weirdly displeased when he doesn’t get much more than a nod in return.

He locks himself in the bathroom for an hour and a half, uses up all of the hot water, and jerks off twice.

And, in the midst of his second orgasm, somewhere between feeling the wired energy of arousal and the easy looseness of release, Sam sort of comes up with a plan.

The jury’s still out on whether it’s a _good_ plan, or even a viable one, but it _is_ a plan.

~

“Okay,” Sam says, “so, you and I are like…complete opposites, right?”

Dean pauses in raising his cheeseburger to his mouth. He stares at Sam, brows furrowing in unease. Sam swallows his pride and continues. “And we’ve got completely different opinions on most things.”

“This better not be you trying to get me to talk about my feelings.”

“No, no.” Sam moves his scrambled eggs around on his plate. It’s almost noon – he’s not sure why he felt like eating breakfast, but he’s pretty much lost his appetite, so it’s a moot point anyways. “It’s…research.”

Dean slowly lowers his cheeseburger back to his plate. His expression is a mix of wariness and bewilderment. “Okay.”

“So, say you and I were, uh, interested in the same person.”

“Define ‘interested.’”

“Wanted to have sex with.”

“I don’t think I like where this was going.”

“Would you say that a huge compromise, on your part, would be agreeing to share that person with me?”

“Oh, dude.” Dean gingerly pushes his plate away from himself, looking faintly nauseated. “Number one, _no_ , and number two, _hell no_.”

“Please just answer the question,” Sam says, and is slightly annoyed at the desperation in his own voice. Dean stares mulishly at him over his untouched double bacon cheeseburger (plus onion rings).

Sam’s scrambled eggs have grown cold, and are now, roughly, the same consistency as rubber.

“Think of it as being two other people,” Sam tries. “Two other people who aren’t us. But are still, you know, really close. Like, related close.”

“This is about Gabriel, isn’t it?” Dean asks faintly. “Oh my god, this is about Gabriel.”

“Dean.”

“You’re thinking about…”

Sam picks up his untouched spoon and throws it at Dean; it hits his shoulder and bounces off, falling with a clatter to the floor. A waitress looks up from where she stands behind the front counter and scowls at them. “ _Dean_.”

Dean clears his throat. “Okay. Okay, I…compromise?”

“ _Yes_. Would it be a big compromise for you? Or, you know, our hypothetical people.”

“I guess? Oh my god, I’m having trouble just thinking about it.”

“But you’d care about me enough to, you know, share.”

“Why are you bringing me into this again?” Sam glares, and Dean clears his throat again. “Yeah, okay. Yes. I mean, if it came down to it, if it was…if we had to, you know, _be_ with the same person because you were like, going to die or something, I’d…yeah, it’d be a compromise, but I’d do it.”

Sam blinks. And then, for fun, pushes a little bit further. “Because you love me.”

Dean points at him menacingly. “Don’t push it.”

“Sorry.”

“Because right now I am really fucking unhappy with you.”

Sam grins. “Sorry, Dean.”

~

So, Sam’s plan is this: get Gabriel’s two halves to finally agree on something, with that something being having sex with Sam. Together. At the same time. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a win-win situation. Gabriel gets to make peace with his other half, Sam gets fucked after like two and a half weeks of nothing but his own hand, and the curse is broken. And even if his idea (which, admittedly, is sort of reaching as far as “compromises” go) doesn’t work, even if Gabriel is still left split in half, well, at least maybe he’ll stop arguing with himself for a little while, and at least Sam gets an orgasm or two (or three, or four – since this is still Gabriel, he’s not discounting anything) out of the deal.

There is literally no possible way for his plan to end completely badly.

Well, there _would_ be no way…if he could get Gabriel into bed with him.

Honestly, it doesn’t even have to be a _bed_ \- a table or a wall, or even the floor would be good enough for Sam, if only it meant that he could get both Gabriels with him, at the same time. But his explanation of his idea is met with disgust on one side (human Gabriel) and utter confusion on the other (angel Gabriel – and why is Sam not surprised?).

“You want us to,” Gabriel says faintly, and then twirls his fingers in a way that doesn’t really imply sex, except for the fact that it’s Gabriel and just about everything he does implies sex. “ _Together_.”

“Well, not each other,” Sam amends quickly. “But, you know…me.”

“Not gonna lie, I’d be utterly thrilled if we could rework this equation and replace _this_ jerkoff with your brother. That’d be an acceptable compromise to me.”

“I have no interest in any humans aside from Sam,” the other Gabriel says primly. Sam feels something warm and a little bit tingly blossom in his chest, while Gabriel’s human side makes exaggerated gagging noises.

“No way,” he says, once the theatrics are done. “There’s got to be another way. I am _not_ sharing you with this…this self-righteous _douchebag_.”

“And I am not sharing you with this bestial idiot.”

Sam closes his eyes and groans.

~

“I need help.”

“Strippers and tequila,” Dean says immediately, and Sam blinks.

“Excuse me?”

“Every problem in the world can be solved with strippers and tequila. Lucifer’s being an asshole? Buy him a few shots and a lapdance. World hunger? Senor Cuervo and Candy Sweetheart will make you forget all about it.”

Sam grimaces. “Okay, you’re an asshole, and somehow I don’t think strippers will help here.” Tequila, maybe. Was angel Gabriel capable of getting drunk? Dean turns his head away from the rerun of Doctor Sexy that’s playing on the television, giving Sam the hairy eyeball.

“Does this have to do with what we _didn’t_ discuss two days ago?”

“No,” Sam says, and then, “Maybe?” Dean groans. “Look, it was a _good plan_. Gabriel is just being…uncooperative.”

“I’m going to regret this, but uncooperative how?”

“Uncooperative in that he won’t have sex with me.”

Dean looks longingly at the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand next to his bed. “I am going to drown myself in liquor after this.” But he sighs, and, after a moment, reaches for the remote and turns the television off. Sam hesitantly sits down on the edge of the bed, wary of the fact that Dean might just decide to kick him out (possibly literally) at any moment.

“Okay, so, number one is that I don’t blame him. Having sex with you is probably freaky enough without adding your twin or your other half or whatever into the mix.”

“Thanks, Dean. Thanks a lot.”

Dean smirks. “Point is, though, don’t act like it’s his fault, because it’s weird. I mean, maybe not for you, because twins, right? Twins are awesome. But for him, it’s probably really, _really_ weird.”

“Are you…telling me to think about someone else’s feelings first?”

Dean waves the comment off. “I read it in a magazine.”

“I didn’t know you read O magazine.”

“Fuck you, Sam, you want my advice or not?”

Sam rolls his eyes, but nods.

“So, the other thing is, how did you, you know, approach the subject? How’d you ask him?”

“How?” Sam frowns. “I just…asked him. I mean, I told him…well, _them_ , really, I told them that I thought it might break the curse.”

“That’s where you went wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

Dean makes a complicated gesture with both hands, seemingly trying to express exactly how much of a dipwad his brother is. “See, you asked it all _clinical_. Like asking if he wanted to go get a shot or something that would make him feel better.”

“I wasn’t aware that I needed to make it any fancier than that?”

“Dude, you’re talking about _sex_. Not just something that might break a curse. It’s sort of a big deal.”

Sam shifts uncomfortably. “I’ve never had to… _convince_ him, before.”

“And there’s your problem. You need to make him want it enough that he’s willing to compromise.” Dean closes his eyes, swallowing, and then gropes for the bottle of whiskey to his right. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to drink until I forget that I just gave my little brother sex advice.”

Sam stands quickly. _Make him want it._ “Thanks, Dean. Just…thanks.”

“Get out before you remind me of what I’ve just done.”

Sam nods, and flees the room while he still can.

~

Sam’s always been good at making plans. Dean’s the kind who rushes in and then asks questions later, but Sam has _always_ been good at planning, ever since he was a kid and he’d won his first science fair because he’d planned it two weeks in advance (it was the only time they stayed in one place long enough for Sam to win a science fair at all).

So Sam puts his considerable experience with making good plans to use.

There are a limited amount of options available to him. The motel isn’t equipped with a whirlpool bath, so that’s out, and Sam has the idea that Gabriel – either of them – wouldn’t really fully appreciate it if he took them out to a fancy restaurant. Sam is sadly lacking in provocative clothing, and he thinks that if he tried to do something romantic – like, say, light candles and open a bottle of wine – he would only get laughed at.

That means he’s left with the straightforward approach. Which, he thinks, Gabriel just might appreciate.

“Dean, I need you to take Gabriel out for a bit.”

Dean makes a face. “Both of them?”

“Both of them.”

“What the hell for?”

Sam gives him a look, and Dean winces.

“Oh Jesus. I don’t want to know.”

“No, you don’t. Just…take them out to get Chinese or something. I don’t care where you take them, as long as you’re gone for a little while. Like, half an hour.”

Dean makes a soft, disgruntled noise. “Okay. Okay, just…try not to be too _loud_.”

“You’re like, four rooms away!”

“And there are _three of you_.”

Sam concedes that particular point, and slips Dean a few twenties for his trouble as, fifteen minutes later, he herds both of Gabriel’s halves out of the motel room and into the Impala. Sam had been planning on buying himself a new laptop at some point, but this is more important.

And then it’s just him, left alone in the motel room. It’s the first time that he’s been alone in weeks, and Sam takes a moment to just breathe, to listen to the quiet and to remember it from before all of this. Before Gabriel.

He finds it oddly disconcerting.

He slowly strips, first his boots and socks, then his shirt, and finally his pants and boxers, leaving them crumpled on the floor. Sam hadn’t wanted to ask Dean any more questions, and certainly not any more questions about sex, but he’d gone to Google for a few ideas, and apparently there’s something about seeing clothes strewn about – not in an “avoiding doing my laundry” way, but a “someone’s been having sex” way – that apparently gets people in the mood. Sam has to remind himself, repeatedly, not to pick the clothes up and fold them. He suspects he’s not really cut out for this “seduction” thing, but damnit, he’s willing to try.

Naked, he pads into the bathroom and then runs the shower for a few moments, letting it get hot. The whole point of this particular exercise is relaxation, and when he steps under the spray he immediately feels some of the tension leave his shoulders, and Sam counts that as a success. He washes himself quickly, but thoroughly, rinses his hair, and then, when he’s finished, brushes his teeth. He’s not sure if that will help in the long run, but it can’t hurt, right?

And then, with a little more than twenty minutes or so left before Dean brings the Gabriels back, Sam quickly dries himself, and then lies down on the bed, still naked, and lets his legs fall open.

He thinks about Gabriel. He thinks about that earthiness that Gabriel carries with him, like a badge of honor, his pride in knowing how to please someone not just like an angel, but like a human. He thinks about kissing Gabriel, wet and open, fucking his tongue into Gabriel’s mouth and sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, the dim light of the lamp on the nightstand illuminating the gold in Gabriel’s eyes while Dean snores softly in a bed three feet away.

He thinks about Gabriel’s shoulders as he scratches his fingernails down his chest, over the protective tattoo and down across his belly, Gabriel’s shoulders rounded and flexing and the curve of his spine as Sam kisses it. Golden skin. So much bare skin, and all of it is Sam’s, and Sam makes Gabriel _feel_. Bare, smooth skin, and it shivers for Sam as he trails his tongue down Gabriel’s spine. He shivers, too, reaching for his dick and not even jerking himself, just touching. Feeling the heat of his own palm and imagining that it’s Gabriel reaching back and fumbling for him as Sam spreads him open, licks a dirty, wet stripe across his hole, no warning. Just heat and the slickness of his spit easing the way as he points his tongue and presses in and in, and Sam knows that Gabriel tastes sort of like blood and sort of like burnt sugar, inside, like he’s had his vessel for so long that his Grace has saturated his body.

Sam groans, deep and filthy in his throat, working his hand over the head of his cock, smearing the precome there, getting his fingers wet. With his other hand he reaches under the pillow, groping until he finds – yes, the lube packets he left there like, four days ago, back when he was certain that Gabriel wouldn’t outright refuse to have sex with him. He grabs all of them, pulls them out without once taking his other hand from his cock, and leaves the packets in a little pile right next to his hip.

“Gabriel,” he says, experimentally, listening to the throaty rasp in his voice and liking it. Gabriel would like it too, he thinks, so he says it again, “ _Gabriel_ ,” and imagines his tongue pressing in against almost unbearable heat and the taste of sugar and the slick feeling of Gabriel clamping down around him. Would Gabriel let him do this to him now? First one, and then the other, both of them spread open on the bed, undone by Sam’s mouth and his tongue and his fingers, and Sam feels a groan rumble in his chest as he fists his cock, as he grabs for one of the packets of lube and tears it with his teeth, getting his fingers wet, smearing it. His hands are filthy, sticky with lube and precome as he spreads his legs wider and reaches down between them, rolling his balls, so good, _so good_ , and then pressing his fingers behind and back.

He’s never done this before.

Well, obviously he’s had sex before, and not just with Gabriel, either. But he’s never done _this_ , he’s never carefully lifted his balls and held them while he circled his finger around his clenching hole, he’s never bit his lip and tried to block out the differences between his fingers and Gabriel’s as he nudged against the clutch of his own body.

But now he is, and it’s…surprisingly good. His fingers are longer than Gabriel’s, thinner, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, not the way Gabriel does, but when he presses forward and forward and _in_ it’s good, it’s sort of awkward and tight and hot, but it’s _good_. He slides his finger in to the second knuckle, crooking it experimentally, because Gabriel can always find his prostate on the first try and –

“Holy shit,” he gasps, because _there_ , yes; he moves his finger again, a slow slide in and in and then out again, precome leaking over his fist as he jerks himself, wet and sloppy and the smell of salt and lube and soap from the shower thick in the room, trying to be careful to keep himself from getting too close to the edge. He’s putting on a show. He has to remember that.

One finger isn’t enough. Sam takes a deep breath, another, and then lets go of his dick and reaches for another packet of lube. He tears it open, the position awkward as he reaches between his own legs and squeezes the stuff across his fingers, across his hole. _Christ_. Cold. But slick. He works his finger out, rubs the pad of it across the twitching muscle, smearing lube everywhere. He’s so fucking wet. Wet and hot and _fuck_ , he thinks, as he presses forward with two fingers, and it hurts a bit more, it’s bigger and it’s more pressure, but it’s two fingers crooking against his prostate instead of one, and Sam keeps his other hand off his dick out of fear that it will be enough to make him come.

He’s so caught up in the push and movement of his fingers, in the way his cock juts against his belly, precome pooling on his skin, that he doesn’t notice the clock on the nightstand. Doesn’t notice that it’s been a little more than a half-hour since Dean left with the Gabriels.

He doesn’t hear Dean’s voice outside, the retreating footsteps, and he doesn’t hear the key turning in the lock until the door actually swings open.

“Sweet, merciful creator,” is what he hears, and Sam blinks, a trickle of sweat rolling down the curve of his cheek. He glances at the door.

“Might wanna close that,” he says, surprised at the languidness in his own voice. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing, but we’ll have to talk about that later.”

Jesus Christ, how is he even talking? He’s got two fingers pressed against his prostate and two versions of his lover (Sam’s pretty sure that when someone tells you that you make them feel in ways that no one else even can, you’ve sort of graduated past the “fuck-buddies” stage, which is weird but not unpleasant) standing in the open doorway, watching him. Both of their mouths are open, and it’s only when Sam crooks his finger again, moaning, that one of them – Sam isn’t sure which – finally closes the door with a little more force than necessary.

“You clever bastard,” Gabriel says. He has, Sam notices, a hard-on that could probably drill holes in steel if he really wanted to.

Sam’s sure that there’s a joke in there involving what Gabriel would like to be drilling, but he’s sort of distracted.

“Got bored,” he gasps out. Feels, more than sees, a shadow fall across him, and looks up into Gabriel’s fascinated face. He knows, sort of instinctively, that this is Gabriel’s angelic half.

“Most people watch TV when they’re bored,” Gabriel’s human side complains.

Sam glances down his own body, at his dick flushed dark red against his stomach and his hand working steadily between his legs, and wonders if he should try for another finger. If he doesn’t actually get sex out of this, he’ll be left jerking himself off in the bathroom for the thousandth time, and he thinks that’ll probably be…unsatisfying.

“You are the only one who makes me feel like this,” Gabriel whispers, almost reverent, and there’s a part of Sam that feels embarrassed by the admission, because this is Gabriel without the jokes and without the sweets, without the rebellion and the anger and the all too human pride. This is a part of Gabriel that he’s kept locked up inside himself for God only knows how long, and now looking at him, while Gabriel’s other half stands, unsure, by the door, is like looking at an exposed nerve. Raw. Aching. Sam shudders and every breath that comes out of him his quick and wanting and stupid with desire as Gabriel reaches out, and lets his hand hover over the center of Sam’s chest.

“Don’t _touch_ him.”

“I have every right to touch him,” Gabriel – Gabriel’s _Grace_ , essentially, Sam realizes – says. “As I am certain that humans have not cornered the market on sins of the flesh.”

“He’s _mine_.”

“Uh, I belong to myself, thanks.” This is, Sam thinks, the weirdest conversation – well, sort of - that he’s ever had, with the Gabriels fighting over him like dogs fighting over a treat, and Sam still with two fingers up his ass in a situation that is rapidly becoming less sexy than it was five minutes ago.

That is, until Gabriel’s angelic half, wearing an expression that seems to dare everyone in the room to stop him, splays his hand across Sam’s stomach, smearing precome over his skin, and then curls his fingers in a loose fist around Sam’s cock. Sam makes an embarrassing noise of want that is almost immediately drowned out by a low, furious rumble from Gabriel’s human half. He takes a menacing step forward, and Sam’s hand immediately stills between his legs.

“ _No_ ,” he says, as firmly as he can manage given the situation. He hates the confused, slightly hurt look that flits across Gabriel’s face, but he doesn’t give in. Instead, he reaches down and carefully moves Gabriel’s hand away from his dick, mourning the loss of that impossible warmth. “Either both of you get me, or _neither_ of you get me.”

“That is not fair,” Gabriel’s angelic half says, and Sam laughs.

“Life’s not fair.”

“Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth.”

Sam cautiously moves his fingers, moaning softly. Both Gabriels immediately stop glaring at each other, their gazes focused on Sam, on the motion of his fingers sliding into his body, the clutch of him, and Sam rocks down on his hand, gasping, because it’s like ten times hotter with Gabriel watching, with the two of them standing there and silently wanting him. He feels like he’s on fire. He feels like he’s going to come any minute just from the intensity of their gazes on him.

“Oh my god,” he says faintly, and both Gabriels frown, but, honestly, who can be expected to keep from blaspheming at a time like this? “If you two don’t agree to this, I am going to be _so pissed_. I’m one more jerk-off session away from getting calluses on my dick and it will be _your_ fault.”

“On a scale of one to ten,” he hears, “how pissed would you be?”

“ _Twelve_ ,” he gasps. His fingers shift wetly in him, and it’s beginning to be _painful_ , how hard he is, and every time his fingertips brush against his prostate it just gets worse. He _wants_. He wants with such unbelievable intensity that he almost thinks that maybe Gabriel doesn’t understand it. He closes his eyes, and tries to think of how to describe how much he wants, the way his stomach tightens with desire at the thought of Gabriel touching him right now, the way everything he is seems focused on this one moment. How everything outside of this motel room has become inconsequential simply by dint of it being _outside_ , of it being something that isn’t Gabriel. Sam can’t possibly put it into words – it’s too big, too powerful, too hot and compressed somewhere in his body, like a white-hot spring that’s been coiled too tightly. He _wants_ , and he’s afraid that if he doesn’t _get_ that the spring will break, and that whatever this thing is, between him and Gabriel, this fuck-buddies-turned-something-else relationship that they’ve got going on, will just…disappear.

 _This isn’t going to work,_ Sam thinks, _they’re too different, there’s no way that they’ll…that I can…_

A hand presses against his hip, first just a touch, and then a grasp. Another one lays against the curve of his thigh, and Sam frowns. _I thought I said,_ he thinks, and opens his mouth to repeat his rule – both of them or _neither_ of them – when another hand touches his shoulder, and another cups his cheek.

Sam opens his eyes, and he’s staring up into two identical faces; one is smiling, eyes sparking with mirth, and the other is quietly reverent. Gabriel is not all stark lines and blue eyes and holiness, the way Castiel is, not even when he’s been split into two like this. Gabriel is bright and sharp at the edges like a newly-forged blade, and rounded everywhere else, soft shoulders, soft belly, soft thighs as the two of them take their hands from Sam’s body and slowly begin to strip. They leave their clothes on the floor, next to Sam’s, and they are gold mirrors of each other as they kneel on the bed on either side of Sam.

Sam’s pretty sure the bed wasn’t this big, before, but he’s definitely not going to question it.

“I didn’t think,” he says, and swallows, jolting softly when two pairs of hands grab his thighs and pull his legs apart, when fingers press against his slick hole, not in, not in, but he moans because there’s pressure and unbearable warmth, and he _wants_ it in.

“I’d be stupid to give this up,” he hears, but he isn’t sure who says it. All he’s sure of is that there are hands on him, holding his legs apart and then smoothing up his chest, resting briefly over the protective tattoo, over his heart, and then sliding up to tangle in his hair. Sam leans up, and is met by two mouths, first one and then the other, taking turns licking past his lips and sucking at his skin, a sloppy, three-way affair that leaves him gasping harder, his heart pounding, his mouth wet and open. A thumb hooks against his bottom lip, dragging it down, and Sam’s breath hitches as Gabriel grasps his wrist and pulls his fingers free. Empty. Cold. Gabriel isn’t letting him close his legs, isn’t letting him roll onto his stomach so that he can press against the sheets, and he makes a soft, embarrassingly aching noise against Gabriel’s thumb. Sucks it into his mouth and presses his tongue against the smooth nail, and Sam’s never been one for sucking cock, but he wants something, something to distract him from the chill.

“Tell me what you want,” he hears, and then, “Tell _us_ what you want,” in tandem, an odd echo of sound that sends a shiver through Sam’s muscles.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, vague and thrusting his hips up, trying desperately for some kind of friction, some kind of warmth, sighing in disappointment when it doesn’t come. He’s sort of out of his mind with it, not even with the pleasure, because all Gabriel is doing is petting him, three hands stroking over his thighs and stomach and shoulders while the fourth occupies his mouth. Gabriel’s thumb slides over his tongue, pops free, and Sam closes his eyes and groans. He can’t take both of them looking at him like that, intense and gorgeous and everything he’s never realized he wanted before.

“ _Tell_ us.”

“Both of you,” he says, without thinking, “both of you, I want both of you.”

A brief silence, and then, echoed, “How?” Sam is confused for a moment – have they always sounded like that? Less like they’re distinct personalities, and more like they’re recordings of each other? – but then a hand curls around his dick, one slow, easy stroke, and he pushes his hips up and makes animal noises of want in the back of his throat. “How do you want us?”

“Any way. Oh, oh fuck, any way, please, Gabriel, it’s been weeks, I want, I want…” He trails off, because Sam can’t vocalize what he wants, it’s too big, hard-hot coil of steel in his chest and curved around his spine, a spiral of stupid lust, and what he ends up saying, “Both of you, in me, please, please.” He doesn’t think about how he phrases it, only knows that there is a coldness working its way through him, and he doesn’t want it there.

The hand on his cock stills. “Both of us?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, addled, fucked-out noises escaping him every time Gabriel so much as twitches, every time there’s even the promise of movement. “Yeah.”

“We think we can do that.”

Since when did “I” become “we,” Sam wonders, since when did Gabriel speak like that? But then he hears the tearing of foil and feels wet, hot fingers pressing against him, nudging behind his balls and up into him and suddenly the cold is gone, like it was never there at all, and Sam rocks down against the hand – fuck, against _two_ hands, because a moment later another finger slips inside him, from a totally different angle. It hurts. It burns in a weird, aching way, and he’s been jerking off in the shower for weeks now and this strange intimacy is sudden, not unwelcome but unusual. He’s not used to it. He wasn’t used to it even when he _was_ sleeping with Gabriel on a fairly regular basis, because Gabriel’s never looked at him like this. Never mind that there are four eyes instead of two – Gabriel never looked at him like he was something marvelous and unexpected. “Please,” he says again, and thinks that that must be, what, the tenth time he’s said it? The hundredth? But the stretch is so good, so slow, opening him up. Gabriel’s fingers are wider than Sam’s, and it hurts, but it’s a pleasant hurt.

Sam keeps his eyes trained on Gabrie’s faces, watching their eyes, their pupils dilating as they reach their hands between his legs and more fingers open him up, oh god, there must be four now, and Gabriel must be doing something because all he feels is the stretch of his muscles and their fingertips nudging against his prostate, stroking him inside and out, the hand on his cock a steady, milking pressure that keeps him hovering on the edge but never falling over.

“Enough,” he gasps, “enough, now, just _now_ ,” and he whines in frustration when those fingers slowly beg their way out of his body, slow, slow. “I want…”

“We know,” he hears, and broad hands pull his thighs apart, lift him up. Cup his ass and curve against his spine and hold him while knees shuffle against his skin, as Gabriel rearranges himself and his other self into something that’s more comfortable, them kneeling on the bed with Sam between them, and everything is warm and close and good.

“Go slow,” he says, and a mouth presses against his neck, wet, open, while another kisses his shoulder as he feels the blunt nudge of Gabriel’s cock jutting against his thigh, tapping against him, pressing in, just a bit.

“We will,” Gabriel murmurs, twin voices against his skin, and then Sam’s lost in the slow slide, opening him up, and it’s a thousand times better than just his fingers, just Gabriel’s fingers, because he can feel the pulse of Gabriel’s heart thrumming in him, he can feel his heat. Like he’s got a core of molten steel.

“Don’t stop.” Sam lets his head roll back, resting against Gabriel’s shoulder and curling his legs around the waist in front of him. It’s sort of an awkward position, uncomfortable, but he feels loose and boneless and he wonders what Gabriel did to him, because a little while ago he was buzzing with desire, a little while ago he thought that he might explode if Gabriel didn’t touch him, and now he looks down at his cock, pressed almost flush against his belly and dripping precome, and he’s almost surprised. Everything is oversensitive and good and _hot_ , and it’s difficult to focus on one source of pleasure over another.

“Breathe,” Gabriel murmurs into his ear, and Sam inhales, sharp and messy, as he bottoms out in one smooth, long movement. Yes. _Yes_.

Gabriel laughs, twin chuckles against his ear and against the curve of his neck. “You liked that? You’ll love this, then.”

 _Love,_ Sam thinks dumbly, _love, oh love, yes_ , as something thinner than Gabriel’s cock presses and presses and slides in – another finger. He is stuffed full and he’s half worried that he’s going to be torn apart because Gabriel is big, he’s out of proportion big and Sam’s appreciative of that, he really is, but now he’s sort of doubting that this can happen the way Gabriel seems to think it can happen.

When another finger slides in alongside the first, Sam is surprised by how little pain there is. It’s there, yes, but distant. An ache, rather than a bright flare.

“There are some, as you say, perks to being an angel,” Gabriel says, and then he leans forward and kisses Sam, gentle and almost chaste while Gabriel’s human half laughs and fucks into Sam with slow, shallow movements of his hips. Sam thinks he might be shaking; Gabriel’s cockhead rubs against his prostate on every upward thrust, just enough pressure to make sparks dance behind Sam’s eyes, and Jesus Christ, why hasn’t he _come_ yet?

“You will come when we let you,” Gabriel murmurs, and then his fingers spread apart, once, twice, testing, before sliding out and away. Sam whimpers against Gabriel’s mouth. It’s the lamest fucking sound he’s ever made, and both of Gabriel’s halves seem to enjoy it.

Which is a good thing, because a few seconds later Gabriel’s replacing his fingers with something much larger, and Sam’s shivering uncontrollably as Gabriel says, “Take a deep breath, Sam,” and he does, he sucks in a thick, whooping gasp as Gabriel pushes up and up, and it’s not going to work, he’s too big, it’s too much and the pain is an actual spark now, no longer an ache but something sharp and physical, and Sam realizes that Gabriel’s concentration is _wrecked_ , and he must have been taking the pain away, soothing it. Taking it upon himself, maybe, since Sam’s not entirely sure how these things are supposed to work. All he knows is that it hurts, pressure and pain and then the odd feeling of something _giving_ , and suddenly it doesn’t hurt anymore, and he is impossibly, wonderfully full, and everything is warm.

“Oh,” he says, soft, “ _oh_ ,” and shifts, more experimental than anything else. He’s surprised by the sudden, sharp punch of sensation that rips out his breath, leaves him gasping as shudders run through him. _So good._ Even better, when Gabriel, both his halves, begin to move after a long minute of letting Sam adjust to the pain that isn’t even there. Slow, steady push and pull of hips as they rock up into him, and Sam wonders what they look like, two cocks in Sam’s ass and an expression that’s too close to ecstasy, not even the physical kind but the kind where you close your eyes and realize the place of everything in the universe. An odd combination of the sensual and the spiritual.

 _What did you expect? You’re boning an angel._

Sam tilts his head back, lets his mouth fall open in a long, continuous noise of want as two hands reach down and touch him, stroke him, rolling his balls, two thumbs rubbing over the head of his cock, and the pleasure, which had been a white-hot coil of urgency in him at first, and which had dulled to something loose and easy while Gabriel’s halves were working him open, now tightens again, reminding him of its presence.

“You have to let me,” he gasps, “let me come, come on, Gabriel…”

Pressure. A snap of hips. Gabriel can’t pound up into him, can’t give him speed or force with the way the three of them are positioned, but Sam doesn’t need speed or force to get off. The fullness is enough, he just…he can’t seem to _reach_ …

A hand squeezes around the base of his cock, a slow stroke upwards. Another reaches further down, touches where Gabriel pushes into Sam’s body, the skin tight, stretched, hot. Sam moans. “ _Please_.”

“Say you’re mine,” he hears, and doesn’t even think about the word - _mine_ instead of _ours_ \- he just recognizes the sound of Gabriel’s voice, twinned as it is, recognizes that demanding, imperious tone. Sam laughs, and it seems to make Gabriel happy, because he’s rewarded with a tighter fist, the hand on his cock speeding up.

“Yeah. Yeah, yours, Gabriel. Yours.” His voice is breathless. Wrecked. “ _Fuck_ , Gabriel, just…”

Gabriel’s voice, on the other hand, is full of laughter. He’s smiling at Sam; his eyes are sparking. “Thought that was what I was doing.”

It’s not, Sam thinks, precisely like a spring uncoiling, or a rubber band snapping back. It’s release of pressure and a bright fierceness filling him up, his cup runneth over, a flood of pleasure so huge that it sweeps over him and buries him. Sam’s hardly even sure that he _enjoys_ his orgasm; all he knows is that he’s having one and it’s been a long fucking time in coming.

He makes a sound that he isn’t even entirely sure is audible – it might only be in his head, might just be him imagining himself making a sound – and comes, and comes, and the tension in him spills out and floods the room with light.

~

Sam opens his eyes and almost immediately wishes he hadn’t. Everything hurts. His legs hurt and his arms hurt and his mouth hurts and his _ass_ hurts. God, does his ass hurt. However, in the grand spirit of the Winchesters not knowing how to take care of themselves, he doesn’t close his eyes, roll over, and go back to sleep (was he asleep? It feels less like he slept and more like he passed out for a while), nor does he do the, probably, slightly more sensible thing and reach for the nightstand for his phone so that he can call his brother and ask him what the hell happened.

Which, in hindsight, is probably a good idea, since, upon close inspection of himself, Sam realizes that he’s filthy. His thighs and ass are absolutely covered in lube – fuck, he’s pretty sure that he’ll _squish_ if he tries to walk – and his stomach is striped with tacky, drying lines of come.

Has he mentioned that everything hurts?

“Oh my god,” he moans, and hears a soft snort from somewhere next to him. A pair of arms wind their way around his waist, lifting him up slightly. His body protests heartily, pain lancing through Sam’s back and, yeah, his ass _definitely_ hurts. He reaches down between his legs to assess the damage, and his fingers come away…also covered in come.

“There is jizz _everywhere_ ,” Sam says, and a chin hooks over his shoulder, and Gabriel’s breath ruffles his hair. He can tell it’s Gabriel – he doesn’t know anyone else who smells like peppermint and earth after a rainstorm. “What _happened_?”

“You broke a six-hundred year old witch’s death curse,” Gabriel murmurs. “And – here’s the best part – you did it by fucking me.”

Sam closes his eyes. The curse. Yeah. He remembers. And…and Gabriel, split in half, constantly arguing with himself, and…

“I honestly didn’t think that would work,” he admits softly. “Mostly I was just horny.”

“Bless your insatiable sexual appetite, Sam Winchester.” Sam snorts, and then, cautiously, rolls onto his other side, wincing slightly. Gabriel is looking at him, all bright eyes and mussed hair and pink lips. Sam wants to kiss him. Nothing is stopping him.

So, he leans forward, brushing their mouths together. Surprisingly chaste.

“Glad it worked,” he sighs. Gabriel grins wolfishly, and then reaches down and presses the pad of his thumb between Sam’s legs, rubbing it against his – Jesus Christ, really _sore_ – asshole. Sam’s central nervous system is fried – it can’t decide whether he should moan or wince. He ends up going with a weird combination of the two. “ _Stop_.”

“Just wait until I tell everyone that you broke my curse with your ass,” Gabriel says gaily.

“I’m going to miss that other version of you.” Sam’s voice is wistful. “The one that didn’t insult and try to embarrass me. I’m probably going to go through a mourning period, you know. Dark clothes, inconsolable weeping, celibacy. The whole deal.”

“Aw, kiddo, I only mock because I care.”

Sam snorts. Gabriel’s arm tightens around his waist. Almost…possessive? Gabriel’s never shown any particular inclination towards possessiveness before.

He’s also never said that he _cares_ before. Sure, it was probably sarcasm, but…

“Besides, you know I’m perfectly capable of duplicating myself _without_ the help of a curse, right?”

Sam blinks slowly.

“We could reenact that scene from Watchmen,” Gabriel offers, and Sam presses forward, kissing the corner of his mouth. Sweet. Chaste. And Gabriel…Gabriel doesn’t pull away from it.

“Okay,” Sam says, and Gabriel’s mouth curves against his in a smile. “Mourning period’s over.”


End file.
